Beneath Divine Eyes
by Magician Irono
Summary: The full story behind Revelation: Sample. Rated T, but please be mature about the subject matter.
1. Chapter 1

My deepest apologies. The summer has started and I want to straighten out my priorities. I need to work more and play less. I don't think I'll be completely off posting stories- I delayed for this long and finally gave in and wrote. If anyone has any tips on management, I'd like to hear them. Maybe send me a private message if you feel obligated to.

It's short, but I won't delay any further. Please enjoy.

Chapter 1

Do you ever think that- No, no. That's not right.

Imagine a time when- Darn it, that's not it either. . .

Ok, ok. Remember when- Argh! I-I'm sorry. It's not easy for me to talk about this. Please, could I have just a few minutes to think some of this through?

Thanks. I appreciate it.

. . .

. . . . . .

. . . Ok, I think I got it.

Have you ever felt. . . oppressed? Not like just "haters" or bullies, but by yourself? Like your own physiology and mind- your own personality- are your enemies for an unfathomable reason, fighting down every attempt to be what your heart truly wants to be. That God himself made you this way, with dissonant intentions, for some sick amusement, down to your DNA links. Or maybe, constantly watched, like you're wearing your darkest secret like the king and his "new clothes", something that makes you less than what you should be and that everyone knows about it? Something that you may not even be aware of.

That you can never be completely human?

Well, take my asthma for instance. It's not my best example, but still follows, I think. I'm not athletic like my sister and anytime a seasonal bug goes around the family like, say, a cold, I'm basically bedridden with pneumonia for days on end. I don't have to participate in gym class as much as the other students, but I honestly want to join in for as long as I can, even if it's those dumb Billy Blanks Tae Bo videos (I cannot believe people still use VHS tapes) or line dancing. I straight up don't belong, just because of the limits set by my body.

Or how about this: the family business. I know my dad basically has a position waiting for me when I'm of age- he's even offered me a job as part of the cleaning staff in the main building. "I know you need a worker's permit from school, but it'll help you get to know the layout of the place and where you'll need to be when you work a real job there in the future," he explained before, sipping his morning coffee. "Not to mention that you'll have some funds in the bank for college- you know it's never too soon to start saving." And I get that, I honestly do. I never wanted to let my father down and I wouldn't mind working for him, but I don't think I'm much of a business person. It's just not me. Laid back, notebook open, scribbling down excerpts about elves, magic, princesses, strange worlds and high adventures- that's where I'd rather be. Maybe I'm like that because of all the books Mom and dad read to me. I've never grown up in that sense and I don't want anyone to know. Especially not dad. Sure, maybe I could work in mom's publishing branch, but I still can't shake the sense that I'll have. . . _failed_ somehow.

And. . . well, there's _that_ . . . meaning what I was doing before I met him: taking a break from my "writing" and admiring a view I really shouldn't be admiring at the back of the class.

It was Rylan Wicker, flirting with a collection of about four school girls. He's base and vain, just like most of the popular kids from my grade, but makes up for it in looks- Black hair, green eyes, that smile, those hips. He's straight as far as I know, but nothing else about him peaks my interest. It's perfectly fine watching from a distance. And this situation- I guess it was how I coped with how I am, just indulging in it like a secret fetish and not really acting upon it. I've suspected I was this way since I was twelve, known for sure shortly after my fourteenth birthday (I was in denial for a long time). This is safe. This is permissible. I thought, _No one would come out at this time, right?_ I certainly wouldn't have- the people there attack you for the littlest things, like if you don't dress the right way or date the wrong person, even _if_ you pick the appropriate gender.

I'll probably be alone for a long times anyways. I have school to worry about, along with college and that job with my father's company, so it works out in a sense.

The bell rung and there was a commotion. Laughter bubbled up. When I turned I only caught sight of a redhead running out the doorway with a bundle of books in his arms. I thought he tripped at first and the others indulged in some tasteless amusement. _How petty._ That's why I normally never get involved in ordeals like that- just not worth it. That boy though- the redhead- I saw him again shortly after that, the same day. If I remember correctly it just at the beginning of the semester, so the weather was still bright and warm. He was waiting at a crosswalk on his way home. Must have spaced out because he stepped down onto the walkway, almost in the way of a speeding car. I remember it pretty well- Fortunately I was close enough, right behind him actually, to yank him out of the way.

I pulled him back and everything just. . . froze.

Looking back, his face was actually pretty plain. At the same time, that could have been yet another compelling detail about him, why I couldn't leave him alone at first. His eyes were brown, like rich dark chocolate, too good to be thrown in cookie dough or cake batter. Kind of strange to go with red hair, neatly trimmed and swept to the side, but hey- it didn't look _bad_. Actually looked pretty . . . well, not necessarily hot, but he was still attractive. Aesthetic. A few freckles dotted his cheeks. _Sunken_ cheeks. And his skin looked pale, not it's natural tone as I would later learn. He was well dressed that day, too, probably something like a school uniform with a black polo and khakis, but with long sleeves some reason. _He was in my class- maybe we're the same age._ Our gazes locked, just like in the movies, and the air was suddenly alight with some energy, ignited by his shocked. I guess he didn't expect me to have to save him.

He started to talk. "W-wait, why did you-," and with a sigh he was suddenly on his knees. All his materials from earlier were sprawled on the concrete. That guy was light for his size, at least back then- I could tell that much from holding him up. It reminded me of my mother the handful of times she worked to hard and skipped meals as a result. I suddenly found myself spewing out a line of questioning that would mirror my father's as I helped him gather everything he dropped.

"Hey, are you ok? When was the last time you've eaten something? Can you stand up?"

The redhead continued to collect everything frantically and didn't lift his head up. _What, does he think I was mad for his legs giving out?_ The thought suddenly dawned on me that maybe he wasn't shoved earlier but that he had fallen then, too. "I'm fine. Please, just leave me alone. I-I'm busy."

"No, you almost got hit by and car and you've just collapsed."

"I'm ok-"

"Hey. Calm down. I'm not like those other guys."

And finally he stopped, eyes analyzing me. _Yeah, I know you were in my class._ He really did look scared. No, not scared. Maybe, but now that I think about it, it was more like disbelief, like I could still be playing some sort of joke. This guy isn't the cynical type, or at least he isn't anymore.

I handed him the small book he dropped- a tan pamphlet of various prayers, judging from the cover. "C'mon, when was the last time you've eaten?"

I don't think anyone bothered us- they were probably on their iphones or something. And if they were staring I wouldn't have cared. Slowly he reached for the booklet. That was when I noticed the wooden rosary on his wrist and the golden letters on the green leather bound book he was holding to his chest. I caught the word "Ignatius" on the cover, flipped outward. And finally, he answered me in a small, abashed muttering. " . . . Yesterday morning."

 _Ok, that is not good at all!_ "C'mon, I'll take you to my place. You can have something there."

" . . . I'll get in trouble."

"Trouble?"

That was about the time we finally got off the ground. He was really thin- I could make out nearly every bone his clothes didn't cover up. I suspected an eating disorder, but didn't entertain the thought for very long. "My mother is expecting me home soon. If I don't get back she may be angry."

 _Well, at least there's something about this guy that's normal._ I wouldn't say angry, but I know my family gets worried if I don't at least text them and let them know I'm home or at school. I think it had something to do with the paparazzi that used to follow dad around so much. "Here." I fished through my pocket for my clamshell cellphone (All those apps and games are petty time-wasters I would rather do without). "You can call her. You know your house phone, right?"

Silence. His eyes darted this way and that, trying to find an answer.

"You don't know your own house phone?"

"No, I know the number."

"Then just call. It's not that hard to do."

But he shook his head, spat out a quick "I'm sorry" and ran off. He was gone before I could catch him.

My classmates might have called him a weirdo or freak after a first impression like that. But that was. . . more or less worrisome, unnerving at the very least for me. I've had health class before. I know about physical and social well being- the redhead I had just met didn't fit either one of those images. I suspected a disorder of some sort. Maybe not as extreme as schizophrenia, but he could have been paranoid or just plain anxious. And that book. Ignatius- the word circled and circled between my ears. I didn't even remember most of the walk home that day.

 _I'll need to do what I to best._

FST

Hopefully you all like the start. Second chapter should be out soon. Prepare for out of character writing! XD I don't intend that they all be this short, but it's a start. In the meantime, be well. I'll see you all in the next chapter.

-Magician Irono


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for your patience, guys. I appreciate it.

This is going to be another short chapter, I think. I also forgot to mention that the story is being told in Ted's point of view. Going to slip some dialogue in there and give some insight on the relationships and interactions with Ted and his family. If you have any suggestions, please send me a message. I'd like to hear what you have to say. And don't forget to review!

Enjoy the story, ok? I'll be off typed the next chapter if you need me.

Chapter 2

 _I'll need to do what I do best. But first, homework._

My family is an eclectic bunch, to say the least. A small portion of them aren't even relatives but security guards and staff I've known since I was a toddler. Gail, for example, or _Mrs._ Gail (to show my respect). She's one of the sweetest old ladies you will ever meet. Not like a great grandmother that you needed to put into a home, but more like an aunt or old babysitter, smothering but not the unwelcomed kind of smothering. When I get back to the house, which is at about half past three, she greets me with her usual smile, questions about my day and what I learned (out exchanges are brief, but not socially inadequate) and a snack of some kind. Ants on a log, oatmeal raisin cookies, peanut butter and chocolate chips sandwiched between two apple rings- it's the kind of stuff you would feed kids, but no good ever came from letting Mrs. Gail's food go to waste. That day I think she had. . . oven baked strawberry slices? Yeah, I think so. Really tasty, better than candy. I'd take that to the couch and work on whatever worksheets or papers that need to be filled out for about five minutes until the lazy furball we know as Mooch decides to say "Hello" too.

All over my open textbook.

Ok, let me explain. Mooch is the tabby cat we keep. He meows like a chirping bird, but he got his name because he always used to pester my Dad for some of his lunch everyday as a stray kitten. Dad finally brought him to the vet and back here. That was about two years ago. I could push and shove all I want, but Mooch won't stay off unless I lay out a decoy book. He'd purr in his nap and I can proceed in peace.

I'll have gotten the bulk of what I need to finish out of what way (on a good day) by the time my sister Phoebe comes home at a little after five. Now listen to me here: When Phoebe steps in the house, you _know_ she steps in the house. First, you get the stench. Rancid, sweaty, and only worse when she takes off those awful sneakers. After that, she won't say anything other than a curt "Hi" and rummage through either the cabinets or fridge for some kind of deli meat or jerky from her stash. Finally she plops right next to me in the couch and flips the television. Our conversations usually go along these lines:

"Phoebe! Go take a shower!"

"Cool it, Zippy. I'll do it later."

"That's not soon enough- please."

At that point Mooch would promptly leave, probably off to find a place that didn't smell so bad.

"Ted, I'm bushed. Lemme eat and relax and shut your trap before I shut it for you. Capeesh?"

It's usually better to leave when Bee starts to make threats than to keep fighting, but this is about where she stops too since I need to be in one piece as a tutor. To put it simply, our duplicit rivalry has lasted for thirteen years and is not showing any signs of letting up. And it used to be worse. When she was younger, Phoebe actually had some serious anger problems and violent tendencies. Didn't help that she had dyslexia, either, and had a hard enough time sitting still in class as it was. Just about every special education program at school and outside had failed. Phoebe even had to go to therapy for a short time. It didn't really settle down until she started to partake in extracurricular sports. Soccer, basketball, track- you name it, she tried it. The most effective thus far, and the one she keeps up with to this day, is mixed martial arts. She's gotten good. All the boys on her team know her as the "Bright-Eyed Blackout" because of her skill and the gray eyes she inherited from my Dad. Bee's even sparred with him, a kickboxer, on occasion and they're actually more evenly matched that you would think.

At about. . . Mmm, let's say six. At about six Phoebe's finishing up her shower, long, black dyed hair in a towel, donned in her pajamas and trotting down the stairs. I'll be either reading some book, studying or helping Mrs. Gail with dinner. That's when Mom and Dad arrive home. There's at least a five year age gap between them, but they look about the same age. I blame my Dad- he acts so childishly. I don't have a problem with him smiling all the time, but he always pesters me and Phoebe to play games or sit with him when he plays the piano. If not, he usually hangs out with Mom. To put it simply, he's clingy. I find it hard to believe he's the CEO of the family business. Mom's probably the only normal one out of the four of us. Calm, soft-spoken, usually pleasant and cheerful. A little shy, but overall agreeable.

But I can't say I'm complaining. That's my family- I can't really imagine them any other way and be happy with it.

I'm not going to go into too much detail. We'd eat, Dad'll pester me, I'll give in, and it's upstairs to get ready for bed. I'll hear Phoebe snoring from down the hall if my door's open, thankfully overshadowed at some point by the muffled tweeting of the grand piano. It helps me think when I write, actually, at night- the safest time to indulge in the hobbies of my second self. Eventually, after an hour or so of writing, I'll have fallen asleep, ultimately satisfied with my work for that day. And it would be childish to say that I go and dream of all those things I write about, but hey. Cradled in all those blankets, behind a closed door with only the moon to watch you- that's another safe place, maybe the only true one out there. It's ok to dream that stuff because there's no one to see or anyone you have to tell. At least, that's how it feels for me.

Ok, back up. All the way back to dinner time for that day. That was about the time I started doing that research. First off, Ignatius. It's a type of bible used by Catholics, though the most common one is the New American (as well as King James), I think. Simple enough- that guy was Catholic. Maybe. From the looks of it, Catholics also pray a lot to different saints. That explains the tan booklet. He could have been bilingual if enough of those prayers were written in latin- that would have been pretty cool in my opinion.

But how thin he was- that was definitely not normal. I leaned back in the chair and bit my thumb. It looks like fasting is a part of their practices. Or rather, certain diet restrictions on certain holidays, like Lent or the Eucharist, whatever that is. You know: Don't eat meat, but fish is ok? It's more along the lines of abstinence, from what I found. But very rarely is full out starvation- that's the extreme. You're supposed to consult with health professionals and your pastor if you plan on doing that. That eventually lead to Anorexia Mirabilis, something from the middle ages that lead to death. I recalled the guy's words from earlier that day with a sickening dread. _". . . Yesterday morning."_

 _Ok, there has to be something he can eat, right? Or a way to convince him?_ My research continued until I fell asleep at the computer. I don't think I got to write anything that night. Mom had to wake me up and drag me up to my room.

My dreams had been tainted with skeptical brown eyes and golden letters that night.

FST

Knocking . . .

A long creak. . .

Foot steps. . .

"Ted? Are you alright?"

There was a gentle tapping on my shoulder. Finally I was awake. It must have been at least one in the morning. The only light I could see was from the street lamp outside that seeped through the blinds. Dad was barely visible outside of the faintest outline, but surely standing at the side of my bed. He quickly apologized and said he would leave, but I flipped on the bed lamp before he could leave. Red eyes. Pale skin. Hands up in defense. Backing away. I've seen this before.

"Dad, it's fine. C'mon, on the bed."

There was no smiling, no laughing, no pestering. Not even half a grin. It's times like those that Dad finally looks his age. "I shouldn't have to lean on you like this-"

"I already told you it's fine. On the bed. Tell me about the nightmare."

The silence hung even after he had sat down at the foot. This is something of a common occurrence. Phoebe sleeps like she's in a coma and Dad never likes to wake Mom up, so he comes to me sometimes. There's no way he'll be able to get back to sleep unless I talk it through with him. Sure, he's been put on anxiety medication, but the nightmares still come. Believe me, though, when I say it's gotten better. I remember hearing him scream in the middle of the night multiple times. I never force an answer out of him- it's usually best to be patient. Dad's kind of a private person, but honest to a fault if you give him time and promise to guard his secrets.

". . . It was a crack overdose."

But he still cooks up ridiculous and paranoid thoughts. Last week it was suicide. The week before it was gang activity, then underaged drinking. And before that it was gambling debt and muggers! Sometimes it's just me, sometimes it's my sister or mother, sometimes it's all three of us. But none of these- they just annoy me with how little sense they make.

"We were fighting about something, you and I. It got loud and violent. Can't remember what it was about- hopefully something important. You ran up, slammed and locked the door. . . Ted, I was angry. So angry. I didn't even check on you or apologize. And by the time I did it was too late."

I heard my grandma say that he thinks the worst in everyone, especially himself. It's so true, it's scary. But I guess you couldn't tell that just by looking at him. Putting on a face to keep from troubling anyone unnecessarily- I admire that, except when it gets to extreme extents like this.

"The bathroom door was locked. I had to bust it down myself, even bruised my arm doing it. The white powder was all over the tiles and your clothes. I-I think you were just coming down from a seizure. And I was just. . . just paralyzed. Didn't move, didn't try to wake you up, didn't even breathe- It was my fault, my-"

 _I think that's all the stupidity I can handle for one night._ I usually kick my blanket off at that point and drape it over his shoulders. He accepted it and I explained why that wouldn't happen. "First off, I don't even know where to get drugs like that. And I'm not about to go looking for them. Second, we don't even have the money for that. We either spend it on travel, games, charity or necessities. Not to mention all your nesquik. And third, I figured you would have more faith in me as a responsible individual. You and Mom raised us better than that, remember?"

". . . I can't keep out all those demons, Ted. And believe me, I would if I could. It's a dark world out there, and I'm afraid you'll be all too eager to jump into it."

"I've had health class- I know what's out there and I know better."

Dad turned his head to me with the worn, gray eyes of a veteran. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. "Y-you're right." Dad stood up and cracked his knuckles. "Thanks, Ted. I'll let you sleep- I know you have school tomorrow."

 _We're not done here. I know you don't want to go back to sleep yet._ I hopped off the bed. "C'mon, let's get something to drink. This talk of nesquik made me thirsty."

"Huh? Ted, didn't you just hear-"

"Yes, I did. But I want something to drink. C'mon."

He signs. "Fine, but not for too long."

We sat at the island after that, him with his wine and me with a cup of chamomile tea, and chatted idly, mostly about the upcoming trip for our fall break. I guess since me and Phoebe were old enough, the wealth didn't go into material items so much as it went into rich life experiences. That usually meant good food and family vacations. We only recently started visiting places outside the United States now that we're "of age". Dad was thinking Canada or Alaska, for the natural beauty before everything freezes over. Gradually he calmed down, forgot his wine. The childish light returned to his eyes as he rattled on about whale watching and Glacier Bay. This is right. The norm. You could say it was healthy.

I often wondered how many families were like this: So open and close that the ugliest lows are just as visible as the most radiant highs; Secure and strong enough so that maybe the parents can lean on the kids every now and again, not like dumping chores on them but breaking down and admitting that they don't have every part of life figured out. Or maybe I didn't have any right to say that. After all, I was still the one who hid. The writing habit, the lack of interest in business, my. . . _condition_. But that was then, the blissful ignorance, the give and take before it had been corrupted by my own burdens. That was the job I happily took upon my shoulders and wouldn't ruin for the world. And if I could keep it that way for such a small price, to help him forget the frivolous worry and give myself a purpose, so be it.

I was the first to yawn. After that half hour of conversation, we had assumed it was best to return to bed. The drinks had been downed, the dishes placed in the washer, and we retired. No other distressed actions or sounds disturbed me for the rest of the night.

FST

These chapters are somewhat impromptu. But please review. We'll see the mystery redhead in the next chapter, don't worry. I appreciate the support. Otherwise, have a good day! :)

-Magician Irono


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